


Bruce x Clark Drabbles

by caretta



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bondage, Kryptonite Sex Toys, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25457263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caretta/pseuds/caretta
Summary: Mostly NSFW. Warning and ratings by chapter.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Kudos: 12





	1. Infidelity, BDSM

Prompt: 

Clark is still with Lois and can’t shake the notion of a normal life, yet he also needs Bruce. Bruce is hurt deeply but can’t say no, so he tortures Clark in a mutually destructive relationship, in hope that he will leave.

“Go back to your world.” Go back to Lois. Go be Superman.

"Superman doesn’t exist."

***

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Bruce stands abruptly, shoving his chair a few feet back. Clark can barely even blink before he’s backhanded hard across the face. It hurts Bruce more than it hurts him, they both know, but he rolls with it and seconds later a band is snapped around his neck.

The pain pierces him, Clark cries out and drops to the floor. Only one notch, he claws at his neck, but his fingers feel ineffectual, useless, not leaving a scratch on a metal band that normally he could crumble with one hand. Clark struggles to breathe. It is snug, this side of too tight, but he knows if– when the second notch opens his larynx won’t be of much use.

Bruce stands motionless in front of him, patiently waiting for him to adjust to the pain. It’s like this every time , the kryptonite always a shock no matter how many times Clark’s been exposed to it. His stomach clenches at the mere sight of green light, so Bruce always has to distract him, sometimes violently, before putting the collar on him. Once it is on, it’s on. Clark can’t get away unless Bruce say so. He’s been pushed enough that there’s no longer any modicum of certainty. One of these days, Bruce will refuse to unlock it for him. One of these days, this pain will be permanent.

Clark doesn't know how he thinks about that.

Bruce yanks him by the hair again, his favorite way to move Clark around, as it messes up the neat pomade of his Superman look and sends his curls into wild shocks around his ears. Clark is kicked in the stomach and chest a few more times, to make sure he’s wheezing, then a final kick sends him down to his hands and knees. At this level of exposure, Clark isn’t yet coughing up blood, but he’s close.

He looks up, cheeks wet from tear, scraping on the dirt on the floor. One boot raises over his vision, deliberately slow. Clark’s eyes drift closed, accepting his fate.

Hard rigged sole presses on the back of his neck, Bruce’s weight slowly leaning over, until Clark has to twist his body to the side in fear of his spine breaking in half. The collar presses the exposed kryptonite onto his skin, burning like a brand, stopping him from turning too much or making noise.

***

Bruce twists around, entering a series of combinations. A drawer open and abruptly Clark feels the rest of his strength ripped from his body. He sags under Bruce’s heels, feels gloved fingers shove into the band of his suit to yank the pants down, followed by a cold drizzle of lube between his crack. The dildo is shoved in unceremoniously, cruelly, and what little breath Clark has left is spent in that weak cry. More tears spill over, the spiral ridges on that dildo pull on his rim as it is shoved into him again and again, with no rhyme or reason except perhaps Bruce’s will to hurt him as much as possible. He succeeds. Clark never has a chance to recover from the first breech, and each subsequent thrust just adds layers upon layers of aching so deep in his spine that Clark is half afraid he’ll never be able to stand straight or walk again.

Yet even as every cell of his body resists the intrusion, Clark feels himself paradoxically growing hard. Bruce fucks him and fucks him, then stops a mili-second before he reaches his first orgasm.

Bruce pauses, pants a few beats, then slowly removes the dildo, not allowing any sudden movement to push Clark over the edge.

Bruce steps away to put the dildo into a tray, to be cleaned later. Clark gasps, still reeling, tries to reach a boneless hand down to finish himself off. It never gets there, of course. In seconds, Bruce is back to yank his wrists behind him. Clark stumbles as he’s hauled by his collar to the Batcomputer’s work station. But not under the table, as he would wish. Instead, Bruce sticks a suction dildo on the wall nearby, at eye level provided he’s on his knees, and says simply, “Practice.”

***

The dildo is too big. Bigger than Bruce, even, and Clark struggles to put even half into his mouth before he has to pull away, choking and coughing his lungs out. Bruce’s fingers are clacking away on the keyboard, not pausing even a second at his failure, so Clark has no choice but to try again. He takes a deep breath this time, tries to relax his burning throat. His neck muscle strains against the collar, Clark has never felt so weak in his life, kneeling with his pants shoved to the knees, his red coat taken off to be used as casual restraint to tie his hands behind his back. The shield on his chest is ruined, almost completely covered in drying semen. He isn’t Superman, he’s a disgraced mockery.

The dildo meets the back of his throat.

Clark barely notices Bruce stepping away from the computer, so focused was he on his task. Only when Bruce gently pulls his head back until he can close his mouth, does he realize his jaws are numb. He doesn’t notice he’s been crying, either, but Bruce swipes some water from under his no doubt reddened eyes, and seems pleased.

Clark doesn’t react much when Bruce picks up and carries him by the waist like one would an unruly child. He is put, face down, on a nearby table, his also numb legs pushed apart as Bruce takes a good look at him. His ass feels raw, a touch from Bruce makes him wince and hisses. Only here, only now. Only with this collar, with this man, can he feel pain the way normal humans could.

The initial breach hurts, but he wants it to be.

No matter how generous Bruce is with lube, the stretch is still too much for him to handle. Clark’s tied hands subconsciously yanks on Bruce’s shirt as Bruce leans over him, panting and biting him to the rhythm of his savage thrusts. Clark spreads his own legs in an attempt to relieve the pain, twisting under Bruce, prompting the man to bite him harder, rows of perfect teeth digging sharply into once unmarred skin, keeping him in place.

***

Bruce pulls his legs up to perch them on either armchairs, freeing his hands to touch Clark elsewhere. Speared down thanks to the sudden loss of leverage, Clark cries out, arms blindly thrusting out to find purchase. Bruce lets him, content to scratch his nipple and play with his cock instead.

Clark falls back, head lolling on Bruce’s shoulder. He’s in the awkward position of needing to move and trying to avoid letting Bruce go in too deep at the same time, one impossible feat given how he’s almost bent in half in a chair. Bruce doesn’t help one bit, licking and biting the shell of his ear, one hand running up and down his chest, sending waves of shivering all over Clark, while the other teases his cock with casual, almost childlike touches, driving him insane but nowhere near enough to get Clark to come.

***

He knows how he looks on his elbows and knees, ass up in the air, a vibrator wriggling away, drilling into him. His face must be as red as his coat, heat pulling there as if by gravity. He’s a bitch, no more and no less, paws crawling and knees digging onto the cave’s stone floor, weakly whining as his first orgasm wrenches through him.

Clark’s back arches as he comes and comes, helplessly clenching around the vibrator, its merciless rhythm seemingly drawing things out indefinitely. When he collects himself enough to look down Clark feels like he’s punched in the gut: that’s much more cum than he expected, and at this rate he won’t be able to keep that bowl from overfilling in an hour.

But the vibe keeps going, and he feels the pleasure build up again. Clark sobs into his gag, rubbing his forehead onto cold floor in hope it will starve things off somewhat. His body feels to wreched from his first climax, exhausted and tingling, heating up from the promise of upcoming excitement. The corner of his mouth is bleeding and somehow it only makes things worse. He clenches his hands into fists, hips pushing back at thin air. The vibrator stretches too big and goes too deep for him to dislodge in anyway, yet he can’t help the primal most instinctive movement, his hips seemingly growing a mind of its own.

He craves heat, craves touch, craves Bruce’s hand yanking his hair and slapping him, fingertips stained with blood when it drags across his skin. He needs that desperate yolt when his body realizes it is being controlled, needs the unfamiliar creeping of fear. Needs the pain, that he can feel on his skin days later, pressing fingers on himself in the dark, even if when he opens his eyes he can’t even find a pigment of kryptonite under his skin.


	2. Red sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:
> 
> "Help me forget."

It did not take long for Clark to find him, which did not surprise Bruce in the least. It just seemed one of those nights. He finished toweling his hair, walked past the steamed glass door just as Clark padded to him in his pajamas, barefoot, low light streaming in from the hallway only serving to highlight how red his lower lip was. Clark reached for the towel, as if to help him, but ended up lacing light fingers into the grey streaks on his temple, eyes far away, searching. Yes, it was one of those nights.

Bruce hid a sigh and took him to bed.

He was born down gracefully, in wet naked glory, not allowed much choice as Clark fumbled for the drawer with one hand while the other gripped at Bruce’s nape to bring his lips closer. His kisses were hungry, pleading, the single-mindedness of one completely lost desperately searching for a way out. The lead box clicked open and Clark let it slip from his fingers onto the night stand, shuddering, taking shallow breaths as his body began to feel the effect.

Bruce knew what this was, knew the addiction had taken aggressive roots that he would have a hard time digging out later. But he would rather Superman came to his room night after night, begging for pain, anything that could make him feel; than the shadow wandering dark hallways with a hand squeezing the phantom spear on his chest. The physical wound had healed much too soon compared to the psychological, and the dissonance of seeing a perfectly healthy body when in his mind he was very much still trapped in a coffin, immobilized, gasping as his body struggled to knit itself, had scrambled Clark’s psyche in a way Bruce could not be sure was not permanent. For now, Clark seemed to need this, and Bruce could only watch himself helplessly give it to him.

Bruce could feel the radiation’s effect slowly spreading, soaking up the body straddling him, turning it from unforgiving marble into pliant, yielding flesh. Bruce stamped off the guilt at enjoying that, Superman’s panting transformation into his vulnerable, human lover; and took the time to rub his hand over Clark’s back, neck, arms, calming him, taking note of the beads of sweat breaking out, in case it became too much. When his rough palm met smooth cheekbones Clark pushed into it, seeking the contrast, and Bruce realized Clark’s face was flushed, the initial pain giving way for feverish arousal. He could not hide his own reaction to Clark sitting there still fully clothed, rubbing his scent all over Bruce’s skin, opening himself to Bruce in a way he never had to another human being.

A surge of pettiness made Bruce pull Clark down, taking charge of the kiss this time, pushing Clark’s shirt up and his pants down to his thighs. Clark was not wearing underwear, of course, Bruce’s middle finger found its place and sunk right in, crooking so he could swallow Clark’s moan, his arm tightening around twisting shoulders, trapping Clark on top of him. Not far away in Metropolis, there lived Lois Lane. She would never have Clark, not like him, not like this. Only Bruce could have this.

Small comfort, given that Clark one day would no doubt leave him, but it would have to do.

Clark pushed back onto his finger, arching, his erection scrapping the elastic band of his pajamas over Bruce’s. Clark broke the kiss, plunging impatient hands to yank his pants away. He took it off like that, pale knees briefly cinching before he could pull the legs off altogether, Bruce’s arm wrapped around the small of his back and Bruce’s finger still inside of him. It made Bruce’s vision blur for a second, all his blood rushing; this time when Clark leaned down he tore into his mouth, hand pushing in to take Clark from both ends. Clark wrapped himself tight around Bruce in return, lost himself in it, arms around Bruce’s neck and thighs squeezing his hips to the primal rhythm their bodies have initiated by themselves.

“Love you fingers… Love your arms…” Clark panted into his ears, clearly gone, clenching every time Bruce’s knuckle thrust past his rim. He laid kisses every where on Bruce’s face he could reach, rubbing their cocks together desperately, smearing his pre-come between them both. Clark lubed up a lot and came twice the amount of normal human, part of his physiology, thus Bruce had grown used to their encounters being sticky at best, sloshy at worst. No matter how enthusiastic Clark had become here, one finger was clearly not turning him on enough, so Bruce took Clark’s chin in his hand as he added another, enjoying Clark’s glazed eyes widening as he was speared.

Clark humping grew stilted, but more desperate, his breathing more labourous as Bruce kept his fingers spread for Clark to stretch himself on. Clark loved it and hated it, his body still not used to the idea of taking anything there, let alone another man. But he craved it, and the kryptonite made it easier, dulling the pain when compared to the throbbing ache felt throughout his body. It made him feel weak, like he had starved for weeks; it also made him alive, waking his nerves from the numbness he could not shake ever since Bruce pulled him from his grave. He knew how he looked from the outside, rubbing himself raw, fucking himself on another man’s hand. Luckily the times he was awake enough to notice, he was also too far gone to care.

What Bruce must think of him… That, he did not _want_ to care.

Clark felt his ears getting hotter, a familiar sign that he would come soon. Not like this, it had been months since they started and coming on fingers alone no longer scratched the itch for him. He extracted his arms from around Bruce’s neck, pulled away from Bruce’s teeth grazing his lip to sit upright, pushing himself up on shaky knees and dislodging Bruce’s fingers in the process. Bruce’s cock stood proud now that he was no longer pressing on it, a challenge, and no matter how many times they had done it, no matter how vividly Clark could recall that hot length pushing into him, he still gulped at mere thought.

It was already shiny with Clark’s pre-come, and Clark took it in his hand, spread that lube around as he felt the weight, the heat, the impossible girth. Pictured how it would feel stretching his rim, very soon, and couldn’t help swiping his thumb at the gland a little to make Bruce’s breath hitch. Bruce, disheveled, covered in scars, staring up at him with something like wonder. He suspected his expression was much the same. Clark lined himself up, not breaking eye contact, pushed himself down, and winced.

Hurt. Just the tip got in, still he should have gone slower. He always forgot his body was not invincible in this state, that he needed to be careful, that he could hurt himself as much as he could hurt Bruce. Bruce knew not to coddle him, knew not to ask if he felt okay, which would only serve to make Clark hurt himself more with boneheaded defiance. Instead Bruce talked, voice a low rumble of guidance, reassuring, telling Clark to breathe through and then try again.

Clark did as he was told, inch by inch, heart hammering to the point he could not hear anything else, feel anything else. Descriptive words flashed through his mind, but none quite captured the sensation, the discomfort, the sheer bliss. Blinding lust urged him to move faster, to take more; while instincts made him squirm and clench dead tight, as if that will some how make the intrusion go away. And threading through both, Bruce’s hand petting his face, his hair, pushing up his shirt to stroke his nipples; the vibration of Bruce’s chest that Clark could not make out a single word, but none-the-less felt the effect. The back of his neck felt taut, skin prickling with trapped heat; his fingers raked on Bruce’s stomach as he gritted his teeth and pushed down one last notch. Clark shivered, pain and arousal sweeping through him in waves and just like that, they were flush together.


	3. Imprisonment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:
> 
> Bruce steals Clark from his coffin and makes him his kept toy.

The afterlife, somehow, consisted of time rapidly passing by. Night, day, night, day again. He remembered lying in deafening silence, whatever material used to wrap around his body making it difficult to breathe. He tried to twist out of it, too weak to make much of a difference, but it must have alerted the others somehow because soon enough he heard some noises coming from directly above him. They were dull at first -- determined, methodical thuds, briefly followed by what seemed like grains being poured. It took him a while to realize it was dirt being shoveled, and Clark immediately relaxed.

In the dark, the sound comforted him. It was still far away yet, but it was coming. Pa was coming for him. Clark used to listen to Pa working behind the house a lot. He would sit in the kitchen, doing his homework, eyes skirting every so often from the cookie and glass of milk laid out on the counter for him as motivation, to Pa in his yellowed wife-beater outside the window, shoveling away. He could breathe in now, and it would all come back -- April's fragile sun, melted chocolate with peanut butter, fresh milk, dried ink on his fingertips, dirt caked in sweat on Pa's. Clark wanted to help, knew he could finish a day's errand in under five minutes, yet his father insisted on doing things himself. There was a lesson to be learned: take it slow, don't indulge in shortcuts.

Clark was taking that advice. He felt exhausted, in a way that meant he would be hurting had he been awake enough to feel. There was something, on his chest, with things binding around it, covering it up, that prevented his chest from expanding but for the tiniest amount. Clark could live with that, though. He had lived through worse, what in particular he could not recall. He only knew he survived, and that--

A loud clang reverberated around him. Clark smiled. The corner of his mouth could only move a fraction, but he smiled.

His family was here.

Some clacking, then it was like a bubble was popped and every single sound of the world rushed in around him with blowing fresh air. Clark spun in his own head trying to take everything in, wet mud wet grass rain on his lips leather new oak. He was soaked through in seconds, chilled to his bones, the reality nothing like his fantasy of his childhood home with cornfield and cookies and love. Where was his Pa? What about Ma? What about Lois? Who was--

"Alfred, bring the car around." It was a male voice, rough and gravelly, which Clark found distinctly familiar but couldn't quite place. It seemed fitting, at least, considering the amount of digging that man just had to do.

"Master Bruce, surely this is--" The second voice sounded much wearier and filtered through static. Clark couldn't catch what surely was how, as suddenly there were cold lines being wrapped under and around his ankles, his knees, both wrists on either side of his hips, then just under his shoulders. The movements were efficient, almost hurried, somehow tightening every ring at the same time to render Clark a trussed up turkey. Not that he could move much before, but he would appreciate the opportunity. So much for that now.

His disdain must have showed on his face somehow, as Clark heard a quick curse in that same low voice, followed by an urgent, "Alfred!" He heard engines, he felt something hooked under the cable across his abdomen, and then--

Clark screamed and convulsed as he tried to get away from the burning torch that was shoved deep into his chest. Only he didn't, his body didn't, couldn't move, it should have reacted somehow but it stayed limp when inside he felt his every nerve endings firing up at the shocks that ran up and down his body, lighting everything before pooling back to the source of pain. He could feel it now, the sizzling brand of a giant hole that split his ribs in half and somehow extending through his lungs to crack open his spine. No wonder he couldn't move. No wonder he couldn't breathe. Clark wanted back what he had before. He wanted darkness, he wanted his home, he would rather be numb-- be dead rather than--

That was all he could think about, how much it hurt, how much he wanted it to not hurt. He could have been lifted up or reburied, transported somewhere, he didn't know and didn't care. All he wanted, he would give anything for the ability to talk so he could beg someone, anyone, to make the pain stop. He lost all concept of time. He spent days in that hell, trapped inside his own body, his own mind, with nothing but the fiery shapes that his brain cooked up to represent his nightmare.

(It was only twenty minutes, he was later told.)

(That fiery shape wasn't just in his head.)

***

"Ah," says Wayne, "You dislike the view."

Clark's angry protest is muffled by the gag. There is no view. There is nothing but the sickly green of kryptonite, lining under the wall of this tiny room. Not enough to kill him, just enough to render him helpless as a baby. A chain connects his left ankle to a ring in the center of the room, just long enough for him to reach the toilet and shower.

"Enjoy your stay." His captor's voice is followed by a swish of the cape. Bruce Wayne doesn't even bother pulling up the mask around Clark, he knows there's no escaping this place any time soon. "Your life before has been quite eventful. I'm sure you'll come to love this period of peace and quiet."

And with that, the reinforced door slides closed in front of him.

***

It's the ceiling, it drives him insane. Every time that man comes, pushes him down, pushes into him, he's left to writhe helplessly on the floor, staring up at that damn crest that for some reason is left dull gray. He hurts, been punched through buildings countless times but somehow being opened up by a mere man makes him vulnerable in ways he never imagined. Wayne is a man, and kryptonite makes Clark even less. Being taken twice a day prompts him to bury his face in his elbows. Is this how Lois feels all the time, how his father felt all the time? That he's mortal, that paradoxically the moment he came back from the death was went he yearned the most for escape?

"Bleed," Wayne -- no, Batman -- orders, delirious from the adrenaline, a night of fighting. He's rough and hurried, none of the control nor grace Batman has shown at all. He holds no consideration for Clark, no concern that he is may be more than just a hole. No, Clark is defeated, and kept, and owned, and the casual disregard hurts even worse than the physical pain he's unaccustomed to enduring.

***

"No!" He croaks, nails scratching in panic all over Wayne's back. For once, the man is bare, his muscles weathered and showing more practiced strength than Clark's optimism. In this room, he stands no chance. His toes curl and stretch on the floor, head lolling back, completely overwhelmed. The rhythm is punishing and relentless, as if Batman is trying to fuck what's left of his defiance out of him. As id there's any defiance left. He keeps saying "no" and pushes and scratches, weak as a kitten, but he knows, they both know, and that fact makes his cry in climax a wail in defeat.

***

Wayne flips them over and just like that, he's on top, grinding himself down onto the man without a beat. He's gone, so gone, god knows how long he's spent in this hellhole without a lick of sun and if this is the only way he gets to feel alive, so be it. Clark runs his finger on Wayne's face, on his salt-and-pepper hair, wondering how someone this close to his father's age still manages to stay on the street. Wayne takes Clark's thumb into his mouth, tongue flirting under the nail bed before curling under in a way that makes Clark shudder. He's never going to leave this room. He's never going to break this chain, never going to see Lois, never going to gain his life back, as long as he's dead to everyone he knows and Wayne is right here in his bed every night, hurting him so good he doesn't know how to stop wanting.


	4. For my own good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:
> 
> Clark asks Bruce to keep him contained, for he can't control his powers.

He is a forgotten miner, buried but for his head, crushed six feet under rubles, coughing his lungs out of parched throat and watching the flashlight’s battery – watching his hope – slowly give out.

He is a taken child, waking up in a locked car trunk, pawing at the roof with feeble hands, struggling to make a sound. Helpless to escape the confines of his sluggish body, angry kicks and desperate screams never materializing beyond his hysterical mind.

He is a scared animal caged inside leaden limbs, the last bout of energy stored in his cells already used up for those first shallow breaths. His heat vision starts and stops, starts and stops, never doing much more than illuminate the inside of this wooden casket. A cross engraved above him. The walls draw narrower toward his feet, outlining his shape, trapping him. His chest, literally split open, is attempting to knit itself at an agonizing snail’s pace. But it can’t – there’s nothing to draw on. No sun. He’s hurt and has nothing to give.

Clark closes his eyes.

Tries to remember his mother’s lullaby. His dad’s warm, solid palm. Lois.

Whatever light his mind conjures, quickly fades away in favor of cape as black as night.

***

Alfred knocked on his door, six AM, cup of coffee in one hand and a simple, “You need to see this.” Something in his eyes made Bruce rush to the kitchen, barefoot, not even bothering to put his shirt on.

Clark Kent was there, sitting at the table, profile blurred by blinding light coming from the window behind him. His suit was torn at the shoulder, old blood browning the center of once-white shirt. He looked dirty all over, like he had crawled for miles through mud, . Chest moved deliberately, carefully, as if it hurt to breathe.

When he turned to face Bruce, his eyes were blank. Bruce took a step closer, one more, and Kent’s head kept tipping back, but not quite meeting his gaze.

No, they were focused on his chest.

Bruce was aware of his heartbeat speeding up. It seemed to affect Kent somehow, because he stood up in a flash, putting a hand on Bruce’s chest. For a split second Bruce was jerked back to his nightmare, to a wrathful Superman ripping out his heart; only this shambled Kent just stood there, eyes lidded, lips miming the beats transferred through his cold palm. With each second that ticked by, his head drooped lower, until his forehead was pressed right next to his hand, a solid weight on Bruce’s bare chest.

Then, just as sudden as his appearance, Kent passed out.

***

Clark has taken to sleeping in front of the Batcomputer by the time Bruce returns. The lights have long since dimmed, leaving the cavern illuminated by Bruce’s usual split-screen digest of world news channels. Clark wears only a threadbare shirt and Bruce’s too-long pajama pants, his feet bare, lips bitten red from watching the news coverage of things Superman could have done, but isn’t. Can’t. Clark sits in his chair in his cave in his shirt smelling of his shampoo, even, but Clark himself is a thousand miles away, not his, never his.

***

And he is standing there in the autumn sun, plating his trench coat a layer of orange maple syrup. He stares at a patch of grass poking out under the snow sleepily, almost there, after a deathly long winter. He walks over, brings his withering, yellowing sun, reaches out to it. The snow softly melts at his fingertips, the grass preens at him with its wet lashes. From the twilight of human life he reaches back in time, across his own fiery summer of pain and fire and death. Coolness soothes his soul, amber pushing back winter’s cold. And for a second, for an eternity, their lips meet when it is the first moment of spring.


End file.
